


When Greaser Shit Hits the Fan

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 50's AU, 50's stuck, 50stuck, F/F, F/M, Greaserstuck, I swear it gets more interesting haha h a, M/M, Very Fun, greasers au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When two rival greaser gangs led by the infamous Cronus Ampora (son of a rich hit-man) and Meenah Peixes (rough-and-tough daughter of a wealthy cooking show host with a surprising secret for making money) clash, you just know shit's going to go down. Especially considering that both groups are trying desperately to get the preacher's son, Kankri Vantas, on their gang just so they can say they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Greaser Shit Hits the Fan

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's boring now, but bear with me. This is a suggestion from my friend Isaac, also known as Epic-Explosions!

            Kankri Vantas was at home alone making dinner like the respectful, obedient preacher’s son he was. He appeared more as a kitchen mom sent from Heaven (or Hell, if you offended him). In short, Kankri was a short boy with dull red hair, much less striking than his father’s flames of hair, constantly licking at the sky, his bangs just candles of light hanging above his brow. Kankri’s hair was more like a dying fire, dark red with a few darker spots, like coals in a fireplace. Freckles dotted the young man’s face and shoulders, looking like paint splattered on the pale canvas of his skin. His cheeks blossomed childishly with baby pudginess, giving him a youthful look despite his age of nineteen. He wasn’t exactly the stuff of children’s nightmares (until they met him and he talked their ears off).

            Currently his father was on the phone in the other room, most likely chatting with his mother. It was a miracle they could understand one another, considering his father carried a heavy Scottish accent, while his mother’s was purebred American southern drawl. Once they’d adjusted to the strange lingo of each other’s languages, though, they communicated beautifully. They were both lovers of poetry, which seemed to help them, too.

            Kankri’s mother was a journalist who was currently traveling in Australia, far from their large American home. She was writing about ‘marsupials or some shit’, as Karkat had put it. Marlene called often, and usually in the intervals of her sweet, drawling words the sounds of loud, slurring speech with punctuated vowels was heard. These were the parts that made up an Australian accent. Currently his father, Silas,  was going on and on and on about the objectification of women in these times. Marlene was enthusiastically shouting back through the phone, probably causing a feminist raging scene wherever she was standing.

            Either way, Kankri continued quietly making dinner, pouring out three servings of soup once he’d finished. He set the steaming bowls on the tables, the hot glass burning his hands in the process. He hissed, shaking his wrists and clenching his fists. How dare you, bowl. He rang the oh-so popular dinner bell to alert his dad to get the hell off the phone and spend some quality time with his present family. After, he went to Karkat’s room, throwing the door open with a: “Dinner time.” The shorter Vantas groaned and rolled out of bed, his shoulder thumping against the carpet floor.

            “Fuck,” he growled lowly, causing Kankri to roll his eyes and leave the doorway. Eventually, all three Vantas’ had made it to the dinner table. Dinner was eaten, and the family parted ways again: Silas to the living room and Karkat to his own bedroom. That left Kankri to stand in the kitchen, the hypotenuse of the introverted triangle that was his family. He did the dishes before going to his bedroom. Fuck holding the men in the family together, they could to it themselves.

            Once within the safety of his own room, Kankri flicked the lights on and fell, playing trust fall with his desk chair. It caught him, that trustworthy bastard, with a creak of protest as the chair’s back slid to accommodate him leaning back. He grabbed a pen and began to write, working on something he was sure he’d never finish. A story? No. Simply an inking of a plot, with no beginning or end. He liked writing the action with great detail, minus the part where he actually had to write things before and after that. He had at least fifty papers of either plotless action scenes, or speeches he’d never make. Being a kid with anxiety didn’t make for a talkative person. Maybe when he’d been younger, he would’ve given his speeches with a superiority complex and arms crossed. Now, though, it wasn’t so easy.

            Once he’d finished writing, or, rather noticed that he was dwelling on small things that didn’t matter and that his hand was no longer moving, he dropped his pen on his desk without even capping it. He pushed his feet against the ground and used it as a starting point, sliding his chair out from under the desk. The boy leaned his head back with a sigh, closing his eyes and trying not to overthink too many things. He had a bad habit of stressing over small things, probably fueled by his overactive mind. It drove him crazy.

            Kankri glanced at the clock in the corner of his room, sighing softly as he noticed it was getting slightly late in the night. Or, late for him, at least. Around nine. He sighed as he hauled his body up from his chair, getting changed into pajamas, turning the lights off before laying down in bed and sliding under the covers. He set his head softly on his pillow, enjoying the cool feel of the sheets against his constantly overheated skin. He sighed in content. He loved bed. Bed was safe, and personal. It was alone time, away from the strange world outside.

            As his eyes closed, he blocked out any leftover existing light invading his bedroom. He loved going to sleep. His consciousness escaped him in waves of exhaustion; emotional, physical, mental. He was ready for bed, no doubt. His awareness slipped from his fingers at last, leaving him to his brain to conjure up dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I'm aware I write boring things. This is just an introduction chapter!


End file.
